


The ABC Affair Challenge stories

by mrua7



Series: The ABC Affair Challenge [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Partnership, Rescue, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 15,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: A twenty-six day challenge featuring short stories, and drabbles based on the letters of the alphabet- letters A through Z





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

**A is for Alouette**

 

"Awful?" Napoleon hissed. "How many times are you going to insult me over this Illya?"

"As many times as it takes," Kuryakin let the barest of smiles appear. "I said it before and I say it again...your accent is just awful."

"There's nothing wrong with my French!"

"Oh, your French is fine, it is only with your accent that I have a problem."

Napoleon sneered as he followed his partner into the agent conference room. They were there for a meet and greet with several new agents transferring into Section III and IV. Slate and Dancer were already there, as were a few other Section II agents, representing Security was Agent Tom Lopaka, the head of Section V.

One of the newbies, obviously a Frenchwoman as her accent gave her away, caught Napoleon's eye. She was built like an hourglass, with gorgeous chestnut brown hair done in a bouffant. Her eyes were hazel, with flecks of gold and those lips...very kissable.

"Mademoiselle Le Fevre….Napoleon Solo at your service. He whispered a few words to her in French, sending her into a fit of soft laughter.

"Oh Monsieur Solo you are so très drôle! I must say... votre accent est tout simplement adorable! It is a pleasure to hear someone get Québécois just right."

Napoleon was taken aback at first as no one, especially Illya realized that's what he was speaking….Québécois, the French language used in Quebec Canada. It was where his mother was born, and he learned his French from her.

"Merci beaucoup, a great compliment from one so beautiful as yourself." He bowed, kissing her on the hand. "It's not often recognized, and consequently I receive derogatory remarks on my accent."

"Monsieur Solo, your accent is perfect and don't listen to those ignorant buffoons. I must say it reminds me of home, as I do miss it so."

That was his cue, besides her fluttering her long eyelashes at him.

"Perhaps we could discuss home tonight over dinner, sort of a welcome to New York."

"Moi? How kind of you ma cher. Let us say seven o'clock?"

"But of course," Napoleon eyed his glaring partner as Celine Le Fevre left the gathering.

"A bientôt, Napoléon!" She called to him.

"You did not waste time did you?" Illya practically hissed.

"Hey, it's a gift, what can I say? You did hear her compliment my accent tovarisch, didn't you?"

Illya refused to answer and merely walked away.

"Chalk one up for the American," Napoleon chuckled to himself.

"I heard that…do not count your goslings before the eggs are laid, and hatched," Illya called out before heading towards the door.

"That's 'don't count your chickens before they hatch," Napoleon retorted.

Kuryakin huffed and disappeared before his partner came up with one of his annoying puns.

Napoleon began to sing as he followed Illya out the door.

_"Alouette, gentile alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai, Aloutette, gentille alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai, Je te plumerai la tete, Je te plumerai la tete, Et la tete_

_Et la tete Alouett' Alouett'...OOOOOOH._..

 


	2. B is for Bomb!

 

 [](http://section7mfu.dreamwidth.org/2090048.html)

**B is for Bomb!**

 

"BOMB!" Kuryakin yelled at he top of his lungs as he charged around the corner, his arms flailing in the air.

"Where?" Solo called back.

"Car!"

Illya tackled his partner, dragging him to the ground just as the vehicle exploded with a tremendous  _ **BOOM!**_

Metal shrapnel and car parts went flying in every direction as a mushroom of orange flame rose. A tire engulfed in fire sent acrid black smoke into the air as it bounced past the agents.

Finally the two men lifted their heads once the debris ceased to drop around them.

"Whew," Napoleon exhaled."That was close. So I take it you didn't get what we came for?"

"As you often say my friend...oh ye of little faith." Illya held an exquisite objet d'art in his hand. "Voila, the stolen Fabergé. The Bay-Tree Egg, presented by Emperor Nicholas II to his mother, Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna. I inspired by an 18th century French singing bird automaton."

"The bay- tree is comprised of 325 nephrite leaves, 110 opalescent white enamel flowers, 25 diamonds, 20 rubies, 53 pearls, 219 rose-cut diamonds and one large rose-cut diamond". When the clockwork automation is wound and set in motion, a feathered bird appears, flaps its wings, turns its head, opens the beak and sings."

"Thanks for the history lesson. No wonder that Thrushie wanted it...his own personal bird treasure. No pun intended by the way," Napoleon remarked. He was busy brushing the dirt from his new suit.

"Thank goodness for small favors," Illya snickered.

"I said the pun wasn't intended," Napoleon shot back, would you rather I said something 'punny?"

"No, no no. Thank you. One bomb is enough for today."

 


	3. C is for Call

 

  
C is for Call

 

 

 

“Calling all agents in the vicinity of Fort Hamilton, near the Verrazano bridge,” Napoleon put out an emergency call on channel F.  “Agents down. I repeat agents down! Need backup immediately!"

He’d taken a bullet to the shoulder, Kuryakin was flat out on the ground a few feet away and Napoleon had no idea his partner was dead or alive. Being pinned down by a constant barrage of bullets prevented him from checking on the downed Russian.

“Hang in there Illya I put in a call for backup,” Napoleon called out in hushed tones. 

A voice came across his communicator. It was Waverly and he was demanding to know the status of the operation. 

“No insult intended sir, but now is not a good time!” Napoleon barked as he got off another shot.

He and Kuryakin had been sent to investigate a suspected satrapy within the installation.

The original fort was completed in 1831, with major additions made in the 1870s and 1900s. However, all defenses and about half of the original fort had been demolished or buried with the construction of the nearby Verrazano Bridge.

 It now served as the home for the United States Army Chaplain School as that had been moved from the recently closed Fort Slocum on Davids' Island in the western end of Long Island Sound, in the city of New Rochelle.  

Hundreds of Army, Army Reserve and Army National Guard Chaplains and their assistants were now trained here for active duty and reserve ministries to soldiers and their dependents.

 

 

Just as THRUSH had infiltrated the Monks of St. Thomas in Switzerland, the organization had done so at the Chaplain School. Their plan to infiltrate the U.S. military in the most innocuous manner through the clergy, still their ultimate goal for doing this hadn’t been clear.

Solo and Kuryakin had proof enough to try and stop the charade, and had freed the members of the clergy who were being held against their will.

They were all escaping when all hell broke loose as a hail of gunfire erupted from the fort.

Napoleon watched in horror as Illya was hit, not once but twice. His partner arched his back, then twisted as he was hit a second time, after which he dropped to the ground.

Solo turned to go after him, and that’s when he was shot as well.

The constant barrage of bullets kept him from getting any closer.

“What the deuce Mr. Solo? How dare you take that tone with me!” Waverly barked. 

“Sorry sir, later, send help now. Kuryakin is down and I’ve been shot too. Can’t hold out much longer. Out!”

Napoleon was becoming lightheaded and got off one more round before he passed out.

When he awoke he was in a nice clean and comfortable hospital bed, though not in UNCLE Medical. There was a very pretty nurse standing beside his bed, and he did his best to give her a smile. 

“Hello there handsome, how you feeling?” She was writing on a clipboard.

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck. Where may I ask am I?”

“Maimonides Medical Center.”

“There was a man with me, a blond. Please tell me he’s alive?”

“Alive and well, sort of...” Illya called to him as he walked in the room. Dressed in pale blue pajamas and wearing a matching terry cloth robe; his forehead was wrapped in a bandage and right arm held up in a sling.

“Like you I took a bullet to the shoulder, but I was grazed on the head as well. When I toppled over I hit my head on what I am told was a small cannon ball.  An apparent leftover from the bygone days of the fort.”

“Everyone get out safely?”

“Yes. Your emergency call for backup helped win the day, and helped us as well.”

“All’s well that ends well then I would say tovarisch.”

“Not quite, at least for you that is,” Illya winced as he tried to shrug.

“What’d you mean?” Napoleon canted his head to the side.

“You need to meet with Mr. Waverly once you are released...something about you telling him off? You did not...did you?" 

Napoleon raised his right hand to his head, covering his eyes as if he were in distress.

“Illya, could you get the nurse? I think I’m having a relapse.”

Kuryakin chuckled. “Why am I not surprised?”

 


	4. D is for Darkness

 

[ ](http://section7mfu.dreamwidth.org/2091317.html)

Napoleon looked across the cell as he and Illya lay there in the darkness.  There were the barest slivers of light coming through the barred window, as it was a full moon.

His head was throbbing, along with innumerable muscles aching all courtesy of the continued beatings he’d been dealt by their THRUSH hosts.

They’d stopped using their truth serums on both agents a long time ago as they had no effect...built up resistance apparently.  

Napoleon chuckled, it never occurred to them to change their formulas...lucky for he and Illya.

“You awake tovarisch?”

He heard a grunt in reply and decided to crawl over to the corner where Kuryakin had nestled himself.

As bad as Napoleon felt, once he got a good look at Illya, he knew the Russian had gotten the worst of it.

His face was crusted with dried blood, and both his eyes were swollen shut. That ever pouty lower lip was split.

Napoleon could only imagine what other damage had been done. 

Why they did that, he didn’t know. Perhaps Kuryakin being slightly built made him a more vulnerable target in THRUSH’s eyes? Still, Napoleon had never met a tougher man that Illya Kuryakin.  Despite that fact, he wasn’t so sure how much longer the two of them could last if the beatings continued.

Napoleon’s head turned in the darkness to the sound of their cell door creaking open.

“Here we go again buddy,” he whispered, giving Illya’s hand a squeeze of support. “Hang tough.”

“Good Lord mates, what did you do to piss off the Thrushies now, mouth back at them again Illya?”

Mark Slate couldn’t have been a more welcome sight, and he was flanked by two other agents, Kelly and Robbins.

“You are a sight for sore eyes...literally,”Illya finally spoke, though with difficulty.

“Cor mate, they did a number on you two didn’t they? Not to worry though, April’s taken care of them for you. Can you walk?”

“With a little help,” Napoleon slowly stood while helping Kuryakin to his feet.  They each leaned on a helping shoulder and stepped from the darkness of their cell into a lit corridor.

At first the light hurt Solo’s eyes; Illya with his eyes nearly swollen shut had no need to shield them from the brightness as had Napoleon.

“Take it easy, we’ll have you out of here and under medical care in a jif,” Mark reassured them. “What did you do to warrant such a going over mates?”

“Nothing at all,” Napoleon said,” perhaps it was just because of who we are…”

“Or perhaps payback for the many times we have won and they have lost,” Illya mumbled.

Mark’s communicator chirped and he walked ahead while answering it.

“Enough palavering mates,” he said upon returning. “An ambulance is here to take you to hospital.”

“But…”Solo tried protesting.

“Not necessary,”Illya chimed in.

“Quiet you two. No arguments as I’m agent in charge and I say what goes here, got it,” Mark practically grinned.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” Napoleon asked. 

“Righto mate,” Slate winked.


	5. E is for Exquisite

[ ](http://section7mfu.dreamwidth.org/2098413.html)

 

Illya Kuryakin was considered the more bloodthirsty between he and Solo, and at the moment he was reaffirming that fact.

UNCLE didn’t abide by torture but their Russian  was raised to be a Soviet agent in an era when such things were looked upon as tools, as merely an end to a means.

Napoleon didn’t like his partner going that route either, but understood the need for Illya to do it in this case. Time was of the essence, and if they didn’t get an answer soon an innocent would die.

Illya circled their THRUSH prisoner like a vulture; the goon was tied to a chair with his wrists tightly bound with rope, secured to the arms of the chair.

“Your name is Sam is it not?”

“Yeah, so what of it?”

“Well Sam, how do you hold up under pain?”

“You don’t scare me Kuryakin!” Sam displayed all the bravado he could muster. Word in the world of THRUSH was that the Russian was a bit crazy, but that was what he’d only heard, just rumors. So far the little runt didn’t look so scary.

That changed literally within the blink of an eye.

Sam watched as Kuryakin’s soft blue eyes darkened and seemed to stare into his very soul. 

Illya’s voice filled with coldness. “I am not talking about your everyday sort of pain...no, what I am speaking of exquisite agony.” He held up a scalpel in front of Sam’s eyes.

“I will run this very sharp blade along your arm. First a twinge as your senses awaken to the discomfort. Tingling becomes throbbing and then burning as your life’s blood trickles down along your skin. You will begin to spasm and convulse as your pain intensifies.”

Sam broke out into a cold sweat as the mad Russian touched the blade to the back of his hand.

“Feel the metal, cold is it not? Soon it will be warmed by your blood, your precious life’s blood.”

That did it. “Okay okay enough, I’ll tell you where she is, but please don’t touch me?”

Napoleon called in the location and the girl was found safe and unharmed.  

As Sam was led out by the cleanup team, Solo watched his partner toss the unused scalpel in a nearby trash receptacle.

“Tovarish, I have to admit that was an amazing thing to watch, and you never even laid a hand or I should say scalpel on him.”

“It is all in the delivery my friend, giving the appropriate looks to fill the subject with terror while uttering keywords to trigger fear.”

“Tell me Illya, would you have cut him if he hadn’t talked?”

“But of course.”

That made Napoleon shiver. He thanked God Illya was on their side.  And to think Kuryakin was a reject from Soviet intelligence…which made him hope he’d never run into any of his partner’s former compatriots.

 


	6. F is for Friday

 

 

"Thank God it's Friday Illya. It's the gateway to the weekend, free time as no assignment is looming in our immediate future," Napoleon leaned back in his office chair, stretching his arms behind his head. There was a legal pad on his desk with a large letter F written and circled in red.

"Do not speak too hastily my friend, we have had assignments thrust upon us at the last minute," Illya cautioned.

"True tovarisch, but the twenty-four hour notice to agents has been holding steady, and I'm going to think positively that it'll stay that way."

"Just because it has been that way recently does not mean it will continue to do so. I for one made no plans this weekend, as I suspect we will be winging our way somewhere…"

"No, no-no! Don't you jinx it Illya."

An announcement came over the public address system. It was the voice of Lisa Rogers.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin please report to Mr. Waverly immediately."

Napoleon shot an unhappy look at his partner, while pointing at him.

"This is your fault!"

"Napoleon please, do not be ridiculous!"

"Huhh!" Solo turned a cold shoulder as he headed out the door beside Kuryakin.

"I wonder what exotic locale to which we will be sent? Hopefully nowhere hot," Illya said.

"Really? Well since this is all your fault, I hope we end up in the tropics."

"Napoleon, you are being ridiculous trying to blame this on me."

Lisa greeted them as they prepared to enter Waverly's conference room. "Glad you got here fast gentlemen, be forewarned...he's a bit grumpy today."

"Thank you Lisa, there are others a bit out of sorts as well,

Illya whispered while straightened his tie. He was just our of earshot of Solo who was busy smoothing back his hair before adjusting his cuffs.

The pneumatic doors opened, silently as always, and the partners walked in side by side. Much to their surprise all the Section heads were present...George Dennell, Tom Lopaka, Doctor Green along with their assistants... just to name a few, and of course Alexander Waverly was present as well.

"Welcome gentlemen," Waverly beckoned with his hand."You're most likely wondering why we are all gathered here."

"An assignment sir?" Napoleon asked.

"No Mr. Solo. I've decided to start a new tradition. On Fridays the Section heads and their seconds will have an afternoon meeting...well perhaps the word meeting is too formal, a gathering, shall we say. Miss Rogers will be serving tea, coffee and refreshments for a more social atmosphere."

"Sir?" Illya looked a bit confused.

"It has come to my attention as of late that our Sections have become a bit compartmentalized and isolated from each other. I thought getting my people together for a more social occasion might help." 

Napoleon smiled, and leaning towards his partner, he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"Lucky for you, you didn't jinx us this time."

"I am so relieved…" Illya deadpanned.


	7. G is for Girls

 

 

 

**G is for Girls...**

 

 

Kuryakin looked at his watch again, only after having checked the time less than five minutes ago. His patience was wearing thin with his partner.

“Napoleon you and your over active libido,” he growled. Shifting his position in leather high back chair he was seated in, in the lobby of his hotel; Illya was angry at having to spend the time dozing off there instead sleeping comfortably in his bed.

It was now two in the morning and he so desperately wanted to sleep. Somehow he just knew this was going to happen when he saw his partner zero in on a shapely blonde in the hotel bar.

After a few drinks and some flirty banter, Napoleon and the woman left, but not before he gave Kuryakin the high sign. That signal was a wink and a thumbs up, indicating the American was taking his lady friend for the evening up to the hotel room. 

Napoleon had a reputation for being quite the lover so that meant this session would go on for hours, if not longer.

“Come on!” Illya snarled after looking at his watch again.

After successfully completing their task of locating the antidote to yet another THRUSH drug Illya was worn out both physically and mentally. He’d been roughed up by one of the goons at the satrapy, though roughed up was putting it mildly.

The man stood nearly seven feet tall, and tossed the Russian around like a ragdoll during their encounter, smashing Kuryakin against the wall and demolishing wooden crates across his back. 

Granted Solo saved the day by sleep darting the Thrushie, using several them on him before the giant came tumbling down, right on top of Illya.

Solo heard his partner’s muffled yells for help as he extricated the Russian from the man’s dead weight.

That multifaceted rescue did not soften the way Illya felt now as he rose from the chair and headed to the elevator. Taking it to the second floor, he exited to the silent hallway.

He listened at the door before inserting his key, not surprised at all to find Napoleon entwined in mauve bed covers with the girl; though Solo was pointing his gun straight at him.

“Oh it’s you,” Napoleon quickly tucked the weapon under the pillow. “You forgot to knock.”

“Forgive my faux pas but I am tired Napoleon. I want to go to sleep.”

His bedmate seemed nonplussed by it all, and waved her hello to the Russian. Napoleon pulled the sheet up about his companion.

“Illya this is Monique, Monique this is my partner Illya.”

“Is ‘e a spy too?” She giggled.

“Yes I am, though it is Napoleon who prefers undercover work at the moment.” That went right over Monique’s head.

“Now if you do not mind Mademoiselle Monique, could you please extricate yourself from Napoleon’s arms and go back to wherever it is you came from; it is late and I would like to go to sleep.”

“Awww ma cher, you tired? Why do you not join us, I will wager I can get you to rise to the occasion.!”

 Napoleon’s face flushed pink at that remark “No Monique, that’s not my friend’s style...I guess you better do as he asks.”

“Well why can ‘e not just go to my room? My friend is gone for the night to some fancy party.” She reached to the nightstand, letting the sheet slip to give the Russian a glimpse of what he was missing. 

Grabbing her hotel key, she tossed it to him.  “Right down the hall Monsieur Illya, dormez bien.”

He caught the key in his right hand without blinking an eye.

“Merci Mademoiselle Monique, I will sleep well at last.” Illya gave his partner a cautionary look before he left.

Kuryakin disappeared out the door, finding the suite was one down and just across the hall. Unlocking the door, he turned on the lights, holding his gun out in front of himself just in case, ready to fire if need be.

When he deemed it safe, Illya went over to one of the two large beds, both undisturbed and tidy, there he sat down with a heavy sigh.

It only took him a few minutes to strip down and crawl under the covers, leaving his clothing scattered on the floor; he could have cared less about it at the moment.

The only thing he kept with him was his Special, and that he tucked under one of the soft white pillows.

Just as he was dozing off, his eyes opened wide at the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. Illya quickly sat up in bed, his gun in hand and ready to move if he had to.

The light clicked on and there stood a blonde woman is a shimmering gown, a fur stole draped over her shoulder. 

She raised a white-gloved hand to her mouth, before she spoke in French.

“Oh, am I in the wrong room?” She seemed rather calm for finding a naked man in what she thought was her bed.

“I apologize Mademoiselle, Monique gave me her key as she and my friend are umm...occupied in my hotel room just two doors down. I am desperately tired and need to sleep.”

“Oh you poor dear! Of course you can stay here, and you can put that gun away, I won’t bite you! Any friend of Monique’s is a friend of mine...say you’re kind of cute. 

“So I have been told.” He was a bit surprised she reacted in the same relaxed manner that Monique had handled Napoleon drawing his gun.

He did as requested, while introducing himself. “You will pardon me if I do not get up. My name is Illya.” 

“Russian? I just adore Russians. My name Monsieur, is Giselle.” 

Kuryakin eyes brightened, and he felt a twinge upon hearing that; Giselle happened to be his favorite French names and this woman who bore it was quite alluring.

She saw that look and knew instantly what to do. After all, she was a modern liberated woman, and it was the age of free love.

 “Illya...may I join you?” She smiled as she undid the straps to her gown, letting it fall to her feet. Stepping out of it, she climbed into bed as he lifted the covers, inviting her in.

Illya canted his head to the side, bemused. 

So much for sleep...

 


	8. H is for Hamburger

 

Oddly enough the television in agent’s lounge at headquarters was on for once.  It rarely was as most of the members of Section II were busy working on their respective assignments, completing paperwork and so forth.

The one man giving the black and white tv screen his undivided attention was a surprise as well;  it Illya Kuryakin, who generally shunned such entertainment.

He did however, have a penchant for cartoons, and once the show was over, he turned off the set and and headed to the office he shared with his partner.

As the doors opened Napoleon greeted him, after glancing at his watch.

“You have uncanny timing, I swear.”

“To what are you referring?”

“It’s lunch time, twelve noon on the dot. Does your stomach have an alarm?”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Illya winked. “You know I am always hungry.”

Napoleon smiled as he shook his head. “Well I was just heading out to P.J. Clarke’s to eat, care to join me?”

Illya reached into his pocket, checking for cash, but in truth he already knew he was a bit short as he’d been to Brentano’s and bought several new books.

“Hmm, I am a bit short on funds today…. _I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”_

Napoleon couldn’t help but roll his eyes upon hearing that.

“Been watching _Popeye_ again, tovarisch? Well...Wimpy, I think the horn of plenty is finally empty for you.  “

 

Illya looked dejected, though granted his partner had treated him to many’s the meal, and conversely Kuryakin had loaned Napoleon money countless number of times to finance his dates with the ladies, perhaps today was not a good day.

“Perhaps a deal,” Illya reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a neatly folded white handkerchief. “I will trade you this.”

He folded back the corners to reveal a large pearl nestled within it.

“And where did you get that pray tell?”

“I had oysters on the half shell a few weeks ago while on assignment and found it inside one of them.” He was lying of course.

“Really?” Napoleon held out his hand.

Illya dropped it into his partner’s palm, and after close examination Solo looked up at him.

“So you want to trade _this_ for lunch?”

“I thought I made that clear?”

“Okay, done,” Napoleon smiled. “Lunch is on me.”

He grabbed his suit jacket and slipped into it with a smile. Of course he knew the pearl was a fake, but he found Illya’s ruse amusing, to say the least. It was worth the price of lunch letting his sneaky partner think he'd gotten one over on him.

This Solo wasn’t born yesterday and knew Kuryakin had a penchant for cartoons, and he too had seen the episode of _Popeye_ where Wimpy palms off a fake pearl at Rough House’s diner in order to get free hamburgers, thirty of them to be precise.

 Napoleon felt a sudden pang of fear as the thought of Illya ordering that many burgers at P.J. Clarke’s crossed his mind.

 

Watch the cartoon on You Tube:

 

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87dt3pDAgu4&t=86s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87dt3pDAgu4&t=86s)


	9. I is for Illya

               **I is for Illya**

            

 

 

“Illya, Illya, Illya,” Napoleon shook his head.”When are you going to relax and just return the flirtations these women are throwing your way?”  

The two men were walking along the grey corridors of headquarters. Solo dallied with the ladies and enjoyed watching the swaying of their derrieres as so many of them walked in front of him, going on about their daily business.

“Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon,” Illya parroted back. “When will you give it a rest?”

“Never,” the American grinned.

“In that case I will leave the flirting to you as you will not get enough at the rate you… well, honestly someday a woman will be the death of you.”

“Yeah, but what a way to go,” Napoleon winked. “Really there is more than enough for both of us tovarisch.”

“No thank you. I will meet women in my own time and way.”

“Illya, Illya, Illya,” Napoleon sighed.


	10. J is for Journey

 

  
  


 

“It is not in life the destination but the journey,”Illya whispered to his partner. For once it was Solo who was injured, though it wasn’t because of an assignment.

Kuryakin was huddled next to his partner in the back of the ambulance as it headed to Mount Sinai hospital, the

facility of choice for UNCLE agents when getting to the Medical suite in headquarters wasn’t an option.

They had gone to dinner together with their respective dates, and Napoleon being ever the gentleman helped Sheila, his current love interest, as she stepped from the cab. 

Somehow he missed his footing, and his right leg ended up in a sewer grate, and sadly it was broken. Illya sent the ladies off in the cab with his apologies; seeing to his partner.

 

“Paraphrasing Ralph Waldo Emerson tovarisch?” Solo grunted. “I hardly think it apropos when I’m in a lot of pain, plus a wonderful evening was ruined. 

“No, actually my grandmother said it to me once. We both know life does not always go as planned. Truly what would be the point if it did? Life is about living.  We cannot know everything that is going to happen before it happens. How boring that would be? Yes, we would have peace of mind, but in truth where we end up is not nearly as important as how we get there, because the getting there is life. Your journey merely took an unexpected direction.” 

“Mmm sounds a bit deep for me at the moment…. the boat is rocking nicely isn’t it tovarisch?” Napoleon’s speech was slurring ever so slightly as the sedative he’d been given was finally kicking in and making a bit loopy.

“Bon voyage, my friend, just think of all the nurses with whom you can flirt,” Illya whispered.


	11. Chapter 11

 

**K IS FOR KALI**

 

As the multi-armed statue of the Hindu goddess Kali wrapped her arms in a deadly embrace, Napoleon could think of only one thing, where the heck was Illya when he really needed him

As Solo grunted at the arms ever tightening grip, he suddenly realized the statue had a very familiar pair of blue eyes and they were looking right at him.

“Relax my friend,”the figure spoke in a whisper,”just pretend to die, and nothing overly dramatic please?”

“Illya I’m not going to ask how you managed this disguise or how you got here before me.”

“Then do not…some secrets are best kept hidden.” Kuryakin winked.

 

 

“Is that blood on your ...hands?”

“And some questions are best left unanswered.


	12. L is for Lust

A cleverly disguised Kuryakin watched from across the street as his partner and ‘that woman’ entered L’hotel Chevalier Blanc.

Illya thought it ironic, the place being called ‘the white knight’ hotel.  Yes Napoleon was indeed a white knight himself, but perhaps a bit tarnished when he was sleeping with the enemy, Angelique.

He had no ideas what Solo saw in that cow of a woman, and supposed, given Napoleon’s over active libido, that this was merely a wanton act of lust.

Napoleon said it was undercover work (tongue in cheek of course) to see if he could glean any intelligence (an amusing thought) from Angelique.  

Solo in turn would feed her false intelligence as well.  It was all for naught as what she gave him was worthless, as what he gave her was as well.

Angelique peeked through the curtains of their hotel room, loosely wrapped in a bed sheet.

“Darling, Is that gendarme standing across the street that insufferable Russian partner of yours?”

“I have no idea; he is quite the master of disguise and can be quite unrecognizable at times….why don’t you come back to bed; I’m feeling a bit lonesome.”

Angelique remained at the window for a moment, and just for a brief second, she let the bed sheet slip...giving Kuryakin an eyeful, just to let him see what he was missing.

Not that she’d ever have sex with that insipid little Russian, but still one must be prepared for the most unpleasant of assignments.

She had a fleeting thought, despite her dislike for Illya, and wondered what it would be like to go to be with him? Rumor has it that people from his part of the world could be quite passionate...all those cold winter nights and such.

“Hmmm…” She put aside that titillating thought, coming back to the present; it was time for some lustful love making with Napoleon.


	13. M is for Marion

**M is for Marion**

 

Illya Kuryakin was very selective when it came to having liaisons with women.  He’d learned his lesson the hard way over the years to avoid romantic entanglements, as they only led to disappointment and sometimes life threatening danger.

Granted he wasn’t a monk, and would date a woman after a relationship of sorts had developed and he was sure it would go no further than something casual, and that included sex.

When he was in his early thirties, he broke his own rule and actively pursued a woman, but she became the last as it ended in another of those disappointments.  It was because of Marion Raven. After that he decided to avoid anymore entanglements.

All she did was throw flirtatious hints at him, which while on assignment he ignored.  Afterwards, she made him work hard at pursuing her but eventually they did become a couple, if you could call it that.

Marion wanted more than he could give her and he told her from the beginning where things stood between them. He wasn’t going to sugar coat the truth, or lie to her.

Eventually, when she became adamant about marriage and a family, he refused ...the reasons were nothing new. He had his obligation to U.N.C.L.E. which he’d told her about from the beginning.

Marion had worked herself up into a frenzy and accused him of using her just for sex, which wasn’t true at all, but there was no reasoning with her.  It was the last straw, and he removed what belongings he had from her place and never looked back.

That was seven years ago...

 

And now Illya Kuryakin stood looking at Marion Raven in line to board a train at Grand Central Station. With her was a dark haired little girl, just a tot, holding her hand.  

He’d heard she’d moved to the west coast and gotten married to some rough and tumble sort of man,  a rich Lithuanian name Čarlzas Buchinsky who had something to do with the film industry.

“Hello Marion,” Illya greeted her as he stepped up behind her.

“Beg pardon… _.oh_ Illya, why hello.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, wonderful as a matter of fact," she said, but her tone of voice was off, something was wrong. It was obvious she was lying, as she didn’t look well at all. She was thin, gaunt looking and he was sure she was wearing a wig.

“I see you haven’t changed, still wearing black suits and turtlenecks. You know fashions do change, you should try to keep up with them.”

“There are more important things in life than keeping up with fashion trends," he shrugged.

“Oh Illya I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. Here we haven’t seen each other in years and I’m being rude to you. How have you been? Still workin for you-know-what?”  Marion knew enough to be discreet when talking about U.N.C.L.E.

“Yes, I am getting close to retirement age.”

“Has it been that long already?”

“Yes. Marion,” he hesitated, but felt compelled to tell her the truth.” I am married. My wife and I have a boy and a girl.” He flipped open his wallet and showed a photograph of his red-haired wife Elliott as well as his son Demya, and red-haired daughter Lourdes Mary.

“Redheads, well that’s interesting, and here I thought you preferred blondes” Marion seemed miffed. “The boy looks like you with his blond hair, but your daughter favors her mother I see.”

“You have no idea...she has her mother’s Irish temper.”

“Irish? Really?” There was disdain in Marion’s voice. Being British she had no love for the Irish, given the troubles in the North of Ireland.”

“Yes, she is lovely and works for our UNCLE as well."

Marion was taken aback by that statement.

“And how did you manage to get around the no marriage clause? I seem to recall that was the reason why you left me. You said marriage was against the rules.”

“Yes I did, as that rule was in effect then, but like so much in life, things and rules change,” he nodded.

 “And you couldn’t come looking for me?” She was obviously annoyed now.

“I was not about to spend my days bemoaning your loss. As I said, things change; I fell in love with someone else. You married as well, so we went our separate ways.”

Still he always had a place for Marion in his heart...

“And how did you know I was married?” She asked.

 “Marion, you forget my line of work…”

“Oh yes, well," her tone of voice softened." Why are we talking of the past, what’s done is done. At least let me introduce my daughter to you. Nicole, this an old friend, Mr. Kuryakin.

“Hello little Miss,” Illya shook her hand.

“My mommy told me about you. You saved her life.”

“Yes but that was a long time ago.”

Marion looked at her wristwatch.” Sorry, but we have to go...don’t want to miss my train. I’m on my way to a clinic for treatment... _cancer,_ ” she whispered. “Bye Illya, it was quite a surprise to see you.”  She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, leaving him before he could say anything.

 

Six months passed, and it was Napoleon who pointed it out in a copy of Variety.  Marion Raven-Buchinsky, the wife of the producer Čarlzas Buchinsky, had died, it was breast cancer…

Illya gave no reaction to the news in front of his partner other than saying, “Really?”  Though Napoleon was positive he saw Illya’s eyes well up for a brief second before the Russian excused himself and left the room.

“I need to see Elliott,” he said as he disappeared through the doors. *

 

 

 

 

 **a/n:** In my AU- Saga series on Fanfiction.net (under Mlaw)  Illya is married to another UNCLE agent, an Irish woman named Elliott McGowan. Waverly permitted their marriage, using them as guinea pigs, testing to see if agents could be married and still perform their duties effectively.


	14. N is for Napoleon

 

“You just fancy yourself a cock of the walk, don’t you Mister Fancy Pants!”

That comment was made to Napoleon in the grey corridors outside the office he shared with his Russian partner.

The source of that comment was one Carmella Necci.

The woman had been in the translation section for several years; Napoleon found her attractive, and she was really built to boot, he never tried to flirt with her.  

He admired her from afar with her ample cleavage, long dark hair, and big brown eyes, but that was it. Leaving the rest to his imagination; he thought it a prudent course of action.

His instincts told him she just might be trouble, and besides there were plenty of fish in the sea, not just here at headquarters but outside of work as well. He was never really at a loss for company, or paramours.

  

“Carmella, I wouldn’t quite put it that way. I enjoy the companionship of the ladies, and many like being with me...it’s as simple as that. I don’t strut around like a rooster in a hen house, if that’s what you’re saying.

“Well I’m a lady and you’ve never once made a pass at me. What am I not good enough for you?” She stood there with her hands on her hips, sticking her chest out to the point were Napoleon thought she was going to burst out of her yellow blouse.

“Not good enough for me? I never thought that of you. You happen to be quite pretty and shapely I might add. I merely thought you weren’t interested in me, "he was lying of course, but in this case the truth would probably hurt her feelings. His instinct was to not get Carmella Necci pissed at him, for any reason. "

"I’d never pursue a lady unless the feelings were mutual, of that you can be sure. Sometimes I like to just sit and have an engaging conversation with a woman; it’s enjoyable to listen to the viewpoint of someone of the opposite sex.” That was the truth...

Carmela took a step back, taking a moment to comprehend that.  She thought of him as more of an unfeeling gigolo, a Casanova who had little regard for women, other than to use them for his sexual gratification.

What he said was not what she expected to hear from the renowned lover Napoleon Solo, especially since she’d just insulted him per se. 

He hesitated, but took a chance as his opinion of her had been slightly incorrect, and now it was being altered as he suspected her opinion of him was as well.

“Would you care to have dinner with me this evening. Maybe we could get to know each other a little better. Absolutely no strings attached, I promise.”

Carmela smiled. “Thank you Napoleon but I have to decline your gracious offer. Still it’s a nice feeling finally being asked.”

“All right, then I will leave that invitation open in case you change your mind some day.” He took her hand and kissed it before retreating into his office, smiling to himself. You can’t win them all, but that was fine with him. The fact that he made her smile and possibly made a friend were both a good result. 

Carmella Necci sighed, and was a little embarrassed that she’d misjudged him. Napoleon was more of a gentleman than she’d assumed he was.

It was nice to know that...


	15. O is for Oranges and Lemons

 

                **Is for**

**Oranges and Lemons...**

 

 

**_'Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's.'_ **

That was what the note said, as well as an addendum that read, "Follow the instructions if you want to see your partner alive.'

That meant going to each church in order.

Kuryakin knew the traditional English nursery rhyme that was being referenced here all too well, traditionally it referred to the bells of several churches, all within or close to the city of London.

He was directed to go to the next church, which was St. Peter's and there he'd receive further information.

Illya had spent three years stationed in the London office before transferring to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York, so he knew his way around the city like a native.

He suspected the person who had kidnapped Napoleon was unaware that he, being a Russian, could possess such knowledge, especially since they were using an older version of the rhyme 'Oranges and Lemons…'It actually began with telling of the bells of London town, going to the bells of St. Marg'ret's, to St. Giles' and then to the bells of St. Martin'sThe kidnapper however, chose to start the merry chase at the next church in the rhyme...St. Clement's.

At first Illya was unsure if he should bypass all the churches and go directly to the last mentioned in the rhyme; that was St Mary-le-Bow, an historic church rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666 by Sir Christopher Wren in the City of London on the main east–west thoroughfare, Cheapside street.

He said the rhyme aloud, taking mental note of the other locations.

 _" **Oranges and lemons,**_ **_Say the bells of St. Clement's._ _Pancakes and fritters,_ _Say the bells of St. Peter's._ _Two sticks and an apple,_ _Say the bells at Whitechapel._ _Old Father Baldpate,_ _Say the slow bells at Aldgate._ **

**_You owe me ten shillings,_ _Say the bells at St. Helen's._ _Pokers and tongs,_ _Say the bells at St. John's._ _Kettles and pans,_ _Say the bells at St. Ann's._ _When will you pay me?_ _Say the bells of Old Bailey._ **

**_When I grow rich,_ _Say the bells of Shoreditch._ _Pray when will that be?_ _Say the bells of Stepney._ _I am sure I don't know,_** _ **Says the great bell of Bow".**.._ that was St. Mary-le-Bow.

It was the next verse that sent shivers up his spine.

_" **Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head."**_

That made him decide to head to the Bow in hopes of getting the jump on the kidnapper. 

As Illya walked carefully into the church, he found it unoccupied. Much of the current building had been destroyed by a German bomb during the Blitz, during which the bells crashed to the ground. After the restoration, the bells cast in 1956, were installed and had only just recently resumed ringing. It was nearly time for that to happen as Illya looked at his wristwatch.

He climbed the stairs of tower, and as he neared the bells he overheard a deep gravelly voice.

"You realize Mr. Solo that your partner will never make it here to rescue you. You see I have men waiting for him at St. Dunstan's. Are you familiar with it?"

"Can't say I am," Napoleon's voice sounded tired.

"It is located in Stepney High Street, in Stepney, and is only twenty minutes away from here. My men have been instructed to hold Mister Kuryakin there when he arrives. You see, I've been sending him on a wild goose chase based on an old English nursery rhyme called 'Oranges and Lemons.' Do you know it?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

"Not surprising as you Americans know nothing as I'm sure your Russian friend doesn't either. The rhyme lists a number of churches around London according to their bells. Mr. Kuryakin has been told to follow my instructions left at each church, letting him think he'll arrive here to rescue you. My men will force him to watch as this church with you in it blows up. Before he dies, he'll know he failed at saving you."

"Why are you doing this to us? I don't know you and I doubt Illya does either."

"Quite correct, neither of you do know me, but you knew my sister and I hold you both responsible for her death."

"And who exactly was your sister?"

"Miss Viveka Diketon, and I am Adolphus Diketon her fraternal twin brother.

Solo strained to see any family resemblance, and they only thing the man had in common with his sister was white-blond hair.

"Peachy,"Napoleon cringed. There wasn't much else he could really say.

Miss Diketon was an evil woman, and she was responsible for brutally torturing Illya. Even though she helped them in the end to foil a particularly deadly T.H.R.U.S.H. plot, she didn't do it for the sake of good; she merely came along for the ride so to speak, just for the sake of exacting her revenge against Louis Strago for spurning her.*

Illya continued to listen in the conversation as he carefully worked his way up into the rafters of the bell tower above Solo and Diketon. Moving cat-like while planning his next move; he stopped when he spotted the aforementioned bomb, and quietly he set about disarming it.

It took him no time to take care of the device, especially since it was quite primitive; Kuryakin turned his attention again to the men below. He decided to jump, landing atop Adolphus.

Diketon was taken completely off guard but like his sister, he was formidable.

The two men wrestled just as the bell ringers of St. Mary's standing in the bottom of the bell tower began their duties. To the agents and Adolphus, being that close the resonating booming of the bells was quite deafening.

Finally, Illya got the upper hand and with one powerful blow, he knocked Diketon out cold.

"Napoleon are you all right?" He asked as he untied his partner.

"What? I can't hear you, my ears are ringing."

"What did you say Napoleon? My ears are ringing and I cannot hear very well."

Both men shrugged off their temporary deafness, and tied up Adolphus Diketon. As soon as their hearing returned, they'd head off to St. Dunstan's to take care of the others…

 

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMIWgowzPhU>

.

* ref. "The Concrete Overcoat Affair"


	16. P is for Princess

 

She was stunning, and as she entered the room she captivated everyone, including Solo and Kuryakin.

“I give you Princess Maria Theresa Luciano-Trevisani, daughter of King Roel," the Steward announced.

She stepped forward, taking slow and deliberate steps. Her pale blue gown with a full skirt,  shimmered at her every move as it was covered in delicate iridescent beads. 

The agents awaiting her, each dressed in black tuxedos and wearing red sashes, bowed at the waist as she approached them.

They had been her bodyguards for the week, and she was deeply disappointed they’d be leaving her soon, and she them. Her own bodyguards, sent by her father, were in place now to escort her home.

 

“Highness, “Solo said.

“I’m going to miss you Napoleon, I enjoyed your company as well as your puns.”

Solo cast a glance at his partner, giving him a bit of a smirk.

“And you Illya, I’ll miss your stories and practicing my French with you. _ Merci.” _

_ “ _ _ De rien _ .  I will miss you too Highness,” he winked at her.

 

The Princess continued on her way to her seat at the head of the very long table where other guests were waiting behind their chairs to be seated for her farewell dinner.

A red velvet pillow was placed on the seat of her guilt chair and she was helped up onto it by her ladies in waiting. 

She was after all, only seven years old...


	17. Q is for Quiet

 

There wasn’t a sound, no birds chirping as the sky was darkening. A storm was on the way…

Napoleon sat in a comfortable arm chair beside the bed, one he’d dragged in from the living room. Remaining completely still, he listened to the quiet breathing of his partner.

Illya was in the bed, practically curled up in a fetal position, and considering he was as weak as a baby that was pretty an understandable.

Kuryakin had taken a bullet to the side, and after escaping together, he and Napoleon took refuge in one of UNCLE’s many safe houses.

There were always ample medical supplies stored on hand in them and Napoleon took advantage of that, rather than trying to seek immediate help 

Going back on the streets with Illya in his current condition would be a death sentence for him, and of course there was a big risk the goons who’d been chasing after them would spot the UNCLE agents again 

Staying put for now was a the best course of action 

Everyone in the field had been given advanced first aid training, though Napoleon having been in the army during the Korean war was well acquainted with wounds such as Illya’s and knew what to do.

He was able to extract the bullet with forceps, as well as clean and bandage the wound. It wasn’t deep, and the round was a small, from a .22 so there wasn’t a terrible amount of damage; no vital organs had been affected 

It was the bleeding that caused the biggest problem before they’d gotten to the safe house but that seemed under control at last.

Illya’s breathing was steady, no raspiness or coughing….that was a good sign, though he was very pale from the blood loss.

Napoleon had changed the bandages several times, and thankfully each time the bleeding had lessened.

On the night stand beside the bed laid those bloody gauze pads, as he hadn’t thrown them away.  There was a porcelain bowl in which he’d poured antiseptic, cotton balls to dab the wound and the forceps, and of course more gauze bandages.

Out of the blue, there was a loud thunder clap, jerking the Russian awake.  He moaned as he moved ever so slightly.

“It’s okay Illya,” Napoleon whispered. 

“Thought it was bomb.” 

“No bombs buddy, just a thunderstorm. It’ll pass soon,” he reassured. 

While his partner was half awake Napoleon carefully lifted the bandage to check...just a little blood on it this time. 

He picked up a cotton ball with the forceps and dipped it into the antiseptic, carefully wiping the wound before he changed the bandage.  

The rain softly hitting against the window pane lulled Illya back to sleep, which was the best thing for him right now. 

If all went well through the night, they’d be able to travel tomorrow, and get some proper medical treatment back at headquarters.

In the meantime peace and quiet, and some tender loving care would do the trick 

Napoleon patted his breast pocket, reminding himself the document he and Illya had stolen from a THRUSH satrapy was still safe and sound. 

He hadn’t even looked at it as Illya had said it was what they were looking for, yet another formula for dominating mankind. It was during their retreat from the satrapy when Illya was shot...

Sometimes Solo tired of the game, especially when Illya was injured. Though his Russian partner had miraculous powers of recovery, one day he might not be able to recoup. 

Illya always seemed to get the worst of it, while the Solo luck seemed to protect Napoleon like a guardian angel, but maybe someday that luck would just run out? It was bound to happen. 

There was a price to pay for saving the world, and Napoleon suspected his bill was long overdue…

He closed his eyes as he yawned, allowing himself to nod off, just a cat nap. 

It was going to be a long night...


	18. R is for Royal Flush

 

“Looks like I have a winning hand, a royal flush indeed. You Mister Slate are the Jack, Miss Dancer the Queen, Solo you’re the king and Illya Kuryakin you are the ace.”  

The four agents were shackled by their wrists to a lichen covered brick wall with a gun being aimed in their direction.

“Central will be ecstatic when I present UNCLE’s top agents to them...perhaps I’ll gift wrap each of you in Persian carpets and roll you out in front of the THRUSH Council just the way Cleopatra was brought to Caesar. And to think I was only going after you dear Napoleon, and I get the other three as a bonus."

“More theatrics Miss Campbell,” Napoleon said. "I have a better idea, why don’t you let us go and we’ll take you with us. U.N.C.L.E. would welcome you with open arms.  With the intelligence you could share, you’d be a hero. You wouldn’t have to worry about one of your bird-brained underlings trying to murder you so they could climb another rung up the ladder leading to promotion.”

“Hero, Solo? Do you seriously think I want to be one? No, you have me all wrong. I want the wealth and power only THRUSH can give me. I want a seat on the Council, and when I bring you four to them, my dream will come true.”

“I dare say not my dear; you’re short a card for a royal flush,” a wizened voice spoke from behind him.  Before Campbell could turn her head, she heard a“pfffft’ and felt a stinging sensation in her neck. By the time the woman's fingers found the source of her pain, she collapsed unconscious to the cold floor.

She'd been hit by a sleep dart from the gun of none other than Alexander Waverly.

 

The Old Man smiled. “ I haven’t done that in a long time, and I must say it felt quite good. Now are you all ready to go home? I’m sure there’ll be a reasonable explanation as to how my four best agents got themselves in such a predicament at the hands of a low level THRUSH agent such at Ailish Campbell.” 

The Mark, April, Napoleon and Illya all turned an interesting shade of pink, as they were unable to hide their embarrassment.

 

“Yes Napoleon, and how did this happen again?” Illya snickered, whispering to his partner “Whose fault was this?”

"Sorry, I can't help it when a pretty girl catches my eye. Not to worry though, I’ll think up a good answer,” Napoleon winked, while Waverly’s attention was on freeing Slate and Dancer.

"Catches your eye, you mean catches you," Illya hissed."And we three had to come to your rescue."

"And a fine job you did of rescuing me tovarisch."

"Just rub salt into the wound," Illya pursed his lips.

 

"Gentlemen, you do realize I can hear everything you're saying," Waverly turned to them, a half-smile on his lips...

 

 


	19. S is for Strange

 

 

 

It was an ordinary day at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York city, or so Napoleon Solo thought. He was sauntering along one of the grey corridors, doing his usual flirting and giving compliments to the ladies as they went on about their duties.

Some he’d stop and admire as they walked ahead of him, watching the almost hypnotic swaying of their hips in their tight black pencil skirts.  The height of their heels seemed to make their derrieres jut out in the cutest way.

This ordinary day suddenly changed into something strange as a Napoleon heard a commotion down the hall.

Illya appeared, dashing past as if his life were in danger.

 

“Napoleon help! Run interference for me!”

 

Stampeding after the flustered Russian were a number of women all shouting they loved him and were demanding he kiss them.

Napoleon knew he couldn’t stop this gaggle of determined girls, and instead he got between them and Kuryakin, running after the Russian as well. He followed Illya as he darted through the gymnasium doors and straight into the men’s locker room. It was there Napoleon blocked the door, and yelled for help from the other agents who were working out.

The men immediately came to Solo's aid, though they had no idea what was going on.

 The women pushed forward, all the while screaming they were in desperately in love with Illya and would die without him, but they were repelled by a half-dozen men, including Solo.

 

Ten minutes later, Illya reappeared, his hair wet and he was dressed in a grey sweatsuit and a pair of black and white high top Converse sneakers, the kind people generally wore to play basketball.  They were a little large and obviously didn’t belong to the Russian and no doubt had been borrowed.

As soon as the women were in close proximity to Illya, it was as if a switch had strangely been flicked off. They turned away without a word (though some of them were blushing) and left the gymnasium, trying to be invisible asif they hadn’t been there.

 

“Okay Tovarisch, you going to do some explaining here?” Napoleon folded his arms in front of himself, looking rather smug.

The other agents went back to their workouts, uninterested in what Kuryakin had to say. They’d eventually hear about it through the regular gossip channels and were sure it was going to be a doozy.

Illya took a deep breath before answering.

”I was working in the lab when one of the assistants knocked over a beaker containing some sort of love potion. It splattered on my lab coat, which I disposed of immediately. Unbeknownst to me some of the solution had gotten on my suit. When I left the lab, women began accosting me and...well, you saw what was happening. I decided it was best to shower and change here.  I am not sure if my suit is even salvageable, as it will have to be taken back to the lab for analysis; I suspect dry cleaning will not work. We will need a hazardous material bag in which to transport it.”

“A love potion you say?” Napoleon cocked his head to the side as he mused. I had no idea Research and Development had one. That could come in handy.”

“Napoleon, do you _really_ think you need help attracting women?” Kuryakin began towel drying his wet hair.

Solo thought for a second before he smiled. “Naaah, but it did wonders for you. So going to call it your ‘Love Potion Number 9?”

“I will not even dignify that with an answer.” Illya turned and walked back into the locker room, once out of view he rolled his eyes as he shook his head.

 

 

"Love potion no. 9":

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36WVirpAieM>

 


	20. T is for Tornado

 

They’d been traveling on Route 50 out to Denver when it happened. Route 50 was also known as  _ The Loneliest Road in America _ , so no immediate help would be forthcoming.

  
  
  


“Where are your pants Napoleon?” Illya asked rather calmly, considering what had just happened to them

“Umm, good question, I lost them when the tornado pulled me into the air out of the car. I guess, not having on my belt didn’t help matters.”

“And your underwear? Did you forget that as well after you spent the evening with the waitress in Kinsley?”

“Very funny and no. It was hot, so I decided to go commando.”

“How unfortunate for you.” Illya snickered as he helped his partner to his feet.”Would you mind wrapping your suit jacket around your waist, I would really prefer not seeing you dangling in the breeze.”

“All right, cut the wisecracks.”

“Oh yes that is the other side of you I would also prefer not to see as well.”

“Since when are you such a prude?” Napoleon chuckled as he gingerly removed his jacket, tying it around himself.

 

They scanned the area for their car, or probably what was left of it, was nowhere to be seen.

After Illya called for help on his communicator, they waited patiently on the side of the road for the retrieval team, saying little else to each other. 

Napoleon could see by his partner’s usually bright blue eyes that he was in pain and finally asked his question.

“You okay tovarisch?”

“Fine, just a little bruised,” Illya hand absentmindedly went to his rib cage but he changed topics immediately.” The sky is beginning to look rather peculiar. Is it my imagination or is the temperature dropping?”

“Yes, it is feeling a little colder now that you mention it, and no drafty remarks please.” 

“Perish the thought,” the Russian half smiled.

Dark clouds were rolling in from the west, and the temperature was indeed dropping rapidly. Within minutes the agents could see their breath and that’s when the first snowflakes began to fall.

“You realize this is not natural.” Illya said, handing his partner his own suit jacket to cover his bare legs.

The snow fell rapidly, and they decided it might be best to start moving, doubting the pickup chopper was flying in this. They needed to find shelter, but where? There was nothing along route 50 that they could recall, still moving was better than sitting and freezing.

The wind started to blow, when in the distance they spotted the wreckage of their car. Miraculously their luggage was still in the trunk and Napoleon quickly pulled out another pair of pants, and dressed himself.  

Adding their bathrobes as an extra layer, that's all they could do as they had no overcoats; who would expect to need one in the middle of Kansas on a summer’s day.

After climbing into the back seat of their derelict  car, they jammed the floor mats to cover the broken windows.  At least they would have some protection until help arrived.

Illya tossed a small paper sack to his partner. 

“Here, bon appetit.”

Napoleon peered into the bag, spotting peppermints, the red swirly kind.

“Holding out on me huh?” Solo smiled, popping one of the candies into his mouth, he offered the bag back to Illya.

"No, it was in my suit case. I bought them at a confectionary while I was waiting for you to end your rendezvous with that waitress. He took the bag and crumpled it up after popping the last mint in his mouth. "I am going to go to sleep since there is nothing else to do at the moment.”

“Thanks a lot, and leave me sitting here to be bored?”

“Napoleon your boredom is not my doing, but your own. I am sure you can amuse yourself while I nap.”

Illya closed his eyes, pulling the collar of his blue terrycloth robe up around his ears as he snuggled against the back of the seat. He was asleep within minutes, no surprise there as the Russian could snooze at the drop of a hat, literally anywhere.

Napoleon sneered as he pulled his communicator, figuring he'd chat with one of the ladies manning Communications, but then he changed his mind thinking it was best he reported their  change in situation.

“Open Channel D- Waverly.

“Mr. Solo are you and Mr. Kuryakin all right?"

“If you call surviving a tornado and now a freak snow storm all within an hour’s time, then the answer I would say is yes.”

“Snow...the devil you say? The helicopter hasn’t arrived yet to retrieve you?”

“No sir. The storm blew in rather suddenly and as Mr. Kuryakin put it, most unnaturally since it is the summer, so I would imagine the chopper has been grounded.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the wreckage of our car on Route 50. Our suitcases were still intact so we had extra clothing to wear to help ward off the cold...but if this keeps up our bathrobes aren't going help much longer.

“Hmm, hang on,“Waverly flipped a switch on his console but was back on within seconds.” We have your exact coordinates now and help is coming  from a nearby military base."

“What base is that sir? I know of none in this immediate area.”

“Precisely...out.”

 

Napoleon closed his communicator, scratching his head at the Old Man’s rather cryptic response.  He rubbed his hands together trying to warm them, when not long after he heard the rumbling of an engine in the distance. Something big pulled up alongside them. It was a military vehicle known as a Deuce-and-a-half. A moment later a  hand cleared away snow from the rear window and a beam of light from a flashlight shone through the rear window.

“Anybody in there?”

One floor mat was pulled down.“Yes there’s two of us,”Solo called. He elbowed his partner to wake up and they crawled out of the back of the car.

At least the snow had stopped.

“Howdy, you fellas hurt?”

“Nothing major,” Illya answered. He eyed their rescuer who was dressed in army fatigues, a sergeant if he read the insignia correctly.

“What base are you from?” Napoleon asked. “Our superior said he was contacting one nearby for assistance.”

 

“Umm, that would be Area 52 sir, now if you’ll get in the truck sir before any other weird weather happens.”

“Any idea what is causing it?” Illya asked.

“Can’t say sir, classified.”

"You meant Area 51...but that's in Nevada," Napoleon asked.

"No sir Area 52, and that's all I can say as it's classified."

Both agents looked at each other and shrugged. That was a word they’d heard many times in their careers...

 


	21. U is for Umbrage

 

 

“Umbrage?”

“Yes umbrage! Do you even understand the meaning of the word?” The Russian hissed.

“Well, ummm….”

“I thought not. It means to take offense. Here are some synonyms...to be aggrieved, be affronted, annoyed, angry, indignant, to be put out, insulted, be hurt, piqued, resentful, disgruntled, to to into a huff, be miffed, have one’s nose out of joint,  to chafe….

“Gee Mister Kuryakin, I don’t know what a syn...synanum is.”

“Bloody hell, Norman. You do not even understand your own language? It is not my native tongue, yet I understand it, its grammar, and the parts of speech and so forth.”

The ginger-haired young man lowered his head.

“I flunked English when I was in school ‘cause I just wasn’t so good at it.  I had to quit my senior year in high school to get a full time job so’s I could help support the family after my no good drunk of a father walked out on us.  I ain’t stupid Mister Kuryakin. I can still read and write, and I do understand things. That’s why I got the file clerk job here at U.N.C.L.E.“

Illya felt a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach for having shouted at Norman.  

Kuryakin questioned himself. Perhaps he needed to walk in another’s shoes to understand things better?  That was something he’d never really done. He needed to be more empathetic towards others, not jump to conclusions; now even more so with this young man who was obviously not at fault for the most part, and who had a good heart.

“Norman, I apologize for my outburst. I would like to make an offer to you. Would you let me tutor you in English? Perhaps it could lead to you getting your high school diploma?”

“Gee Mister Kuryakin, you’re awfully busy. I shouldn’t oughta take you away from your important work.”

“We could do it on my free time, perhaps once or twice a week. It would be a privilege to help you. Once you get your degree, it could help you get a promotion.”

“Okay Mister Kuryakin, you got yerself a deal,” Norman’s freckled face beamed as he offered his hand to the Russian, and Illya shook it in return.

“We can start tonight after I am finished with my shift here at 5 p.m. you should be done with yours by then as well?”

“Yes sir I am,” Norman smiled. “Gotta go, I can’t be late with these.” He straightened out the folders he held in his arms with an apparent sense of pride before dashing off to the elevator.

Napoleon stepped up behind his partner, adding his two cents worth after he’d quietly eavesdropped on the conversation.

“I heard that offer to tutor Norman and it’s really nice of you tovarisch.”

“I think it is the right thing to do to help the young man.”

“Oh it is, but when you get to explaining colloquialisms and idioms, you better call me to help you out,” Napoleon winked.

“Why must you insult me?”Illya huffed.

“Oh maybe because it’s fun.” Solo turned and walked away, grinning from ear to ear.

“I should take umbrage, but today is your lucky day Napoleon,”Illya called. “For insulting me, you get to buy me lunch at Katz’s Delicatessen as recompense.”

Solo made ‘that face,’ the one where he scrunches up his nose and mouth when he realizes he’s been out maneuvered…

 

.

* note: in my early partnership stories Illya seemed to not understand American colloquialisms and idioms, leaving Napoleon to be constantly explaining them. Illya may have actually been pulling Solo’s leg, but that’s never really brought to light.


	22. V is for Viktor

 

****

   Cyrillic- V is for Viktor

  
  
  


Illya Kuryakin stared at the man watching a nearby chess game being played at the Chess & Checkers House in Central Park.

 

 

Illya stopped there sometimes to play a game or two and know the history of the place.

After the Park was opened in the 1860s, it was criticized by local newspapers for its lack of facilities for children and their caregivers. The commissioners responded by creating a Children's District in the southern part of the park. The features included the Dairy, the playground, a children's cottage, and the Kinderberg, or "children's mountain," where the Park's largest rustic shelter once stood. In 1952, private funds enabled construction of the Chess & Checkers House to replace the Kinderberg.

 

The Russian stared at the scarred face of the man who was older and white-haired; he couldn’t believe his eyes. Illya thought he was dead, having been made a prisoner in the Solovki gulag, on an island that was part of the Solovetsky Archipelago. There was no way off, if you got out of the compound; you froze to death in the treacherous waters of the Onega Bay. Illya knew because he tried to escape himself.*

It was a the very place where Viktor Karkoff, his former GRU sponsor imprisoned Kuryakin as revenge for an incident that took place in France when Illya was but a young greenhorn agent with Soviet military intelligence. ***** That incident caused Karkoff to lose face at the Kremlin, and be demoted.* He left military intelligence and joined KGB.

Years later he had Kuryakin kidnapped and taken to the gulag, the same one where Illya’s grandfather Count Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin had been imprisoned, and where he died. **

However, Viktor’s scheme of revenge was discovered and thwarted but it nearly cost Illya his life.

As punishment Karkoff was made a prisoner of the very gulag he once commanded, a gulag that wasn’t supposed to exist. To the world the Solovki Monastery, that was once the mother of all gulags, had been closed and was being converted to a museum. **

 

The old man looked up, seeing Kuryakin’s gaze and his eyes gave away his recognition of the UNCLE agent.

He walked slowly towards Illya, limping as he moved.

 _“Illyushenka,_ ”Viktor whispered as he moved closer, speaking in Russian.

Kuryakin took a step back, reaching for his gun just in case, though this would be a terrible place for him to draw and shoot Karkoff...too many innocents, too many witnesses.

_“I am unarmed, I assure you. Please may we talk?”_

_“I have nothing to say to you Viktor...how is it that you are alive?”_

_“The gulag was finally closed and all surviving prisoners were released, though you can see I am no longer the man I was.”_

_“What do you want Viktor?”_ Illya’s blue eyes grew cold as did his voice.

_“I wish to tell you that I regret what I did to you. I am sorry.”_

Illya’s face reddened, though he kept his voice low. He continued to speak in rapid fire Russian.

_“You sorry? You kidnapped me, imprisoned me, had me tortured, starved me, let me be raped and I am supposed to accept an apology from a man who should be dead for what he did to me and the other prisoners?”_

_“I was hoping you could forgive me….son, for old time’s sake. I did save you from State School, got you your education and training did I not? I regret what I did to you, it was so wrong, but I was foolish and angry back then.” **_

_“Oh you left out that you tried to murder me! Not only do I not forgive you Viktor Karkoff, I hope you burn in hell someday! And do not call me son, you were never a father to me or the other boys you plucked from the orphanages...we were nothing but leverage to you so you could climb the ladder of success at Kremlin.”_

_“Hell? You have found religion?”_

_“Yes I believe in God again and though Christianity preaches forgiveness, that is something I will never give you. Go away Victor, and stay away from me and mine or I guarantee your life will end sooner than you think.”_

_“I will leave you Illyushenka and I give you old man’s solemn promise to leave you alone. You will never see me again.”_ Karkoff lowered his eyes as he turned and walked out of the Chess  & Checkers House.

Illya left as well via another door, tears of anger filling his eyes. He would have to warn his family of Karkoff’s presence, Napoleon and UNCLE as well.

Though Viktor gave his word, that meant nothing; he’d known the man too long to trust him.

A week later Napoleon walked into his partner’s office, holding out a report. The humiliated former KGB agent Viktor Karkoff had been found dead. He’d committed suicide, having hung himself from a tree in Central Park.

“Good,” the Russian sneered, “he deserved a lonely and painful death and I hope it took a long time for him to strangle.”

“Illya, I’ve never heard you talk like this in all the years I’ve known you...well except when you shot that Nazi in South America.” ***

“Napoleon, you know what I went through it the gulag, but knowing and experiencing are two different things my friend. Viktor asked for my forgiveness, but that was something he did not deserve. God will see to him for his evil ways. His apologizing for them would never be enough.”

 

Solo let the subject go as it wasn’t worth getting Illya worked up over it again.

An old chapter in Kuryakin’s life had finally been closed and the page turned back to his life now. He had a wife and four beautiful children, the best thing that ever could have happened to him.

When Illya returned from the gulag, he was a broken man, but his young family, and a best friend named Napoleon became his salvation.

  


*ref.[”The Gambit Affair” ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7008872/1/The-Gambit-Affair)(an AU story) ** ref. [“First Kill”](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6758034/1/First-Kill)

*** ref. [“The Randomness of Life- chapter 52”](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8306758/52/The-Randomness-of-Life)

These are under my other user name 'Mlaw' on Fanfiction.net  
  



	23. W is for Warm

 

                               **W is for Warm**

 

 

April Dancer was being cruel, at least that’s the way Napoleon felt about what she was doing.

She was beside him on the beach blanket wearing the proverbial itsy bitsy, teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini, stretching out and arching her back in a rather seductive way and he was feeling a little warm because of it.

Granted it was a sunny day along the shore, with a nice breeze coming in from the water, but Solo’s warmth was being prompted by his libido.

They were keeping their eyes on a man who was walking along the strand with one of those new portable metal detectors.

With the invention and development of the transistor in the 50s and 60s, metal detector manufacturers and designers were able to make smaller lighter machines with improved circuitry, running on small battery packs. Companies were springing up all over the USA and Britain to supply the growing demand. There was a new generation of treasure hunters because of them.

This man however, wasn’t your average treasure hunter looking for jewelry and coins lost in the sand, this man was searching for something specifically left for him.  

Illya was on the beach as well, sloshing along in the water, and following the fellow. Periodically he’d pick up shells that he’d put into a child’s red plastic bucket as he tried to look innocuous. Given there was no place to hide his gun as he was wearing only a clingy white bathing suit, his Special was well hidden in the bucket amongst the shells.

April sighed,” Will you look at that view.”

“Mmm, yes it is a spectacular one,” Napoleon agreed, though his eyes were focused on her breasts and not on what she was looking at.

“Excuse me, I’m talking about your partner. He looks great in that bathing suit. I didn’t realize how trim and muscular he was. Those black clothes of his really hide things.”

“April,” Napoleon groused,” I think you need to keep your eye on the target."

"Speak for yourself." She stuck out her tongue at him, but did as he said. When they both looked for the metal detector man, he was nowhere to be seen.

Napoleon immediately  pulled his communicator. “Channel F- Illya are you there?”

“Yes I am.”

“We lost the target, can you see him?”

“Speak for yourself. While you and April were busy with your ogling and chatting, I took care of the target. I have the box he uncovered and he is sleeping soundly on a nearby beach blanket.  Now can we please go, I am getting sunburned.”

“Sure thing tovarisch.”

“Next time you’ll let me put sunscreen on you,” April added her two cents. "Now your might need some Noxzema."

“Thank you but no… I will meet you over at the concession stand. Kuryakin out.”

 

“Darn,” April mumbled, "This assignment was over too fast. I was enjoying working on my tan. It really is a gorgeous day isn't it?"

“Darn is right,” Napoleon mumbled.”I was getting a rise over you working on your tan too.”

April’s head did a slow turn, and she glanced down at Napoleon’s bathing suit.

“Better tell Illya we’re going to be a few minutes lover boy, you’re not going anywhere in that condition.”

“Well maybe later you can….umm, scratch my itch?” Napoleon crooned.

“Maybe…” she flirted back.

 


	24. X is for Xanthoceras

      

            **X is for Xanthoceras**                             

 

Solo and Kuryakin were plowing through the woods, having abandoned their car somewhere on one of the local roads.  It had run out of gas so it was useless to them now.

Once disappearing into the tree line they decided to double back, hoping their pursuers might think they’d continue to move in the direction in which they’d already been heading.

It was so far so good and their strategy seemed to be doing the trick, that was when Napoleon deemed it safe for them to stop to catch their breath.

Illya dropped to the ground, surrounded by a leafy green bush…. 

“Look out!” Napoleon hissed, but it was too late.

“For what?” The Russian quickly turned his head to the left and right, but saw no danger.

“I have bad news for you tovarisch, you just sat in a bunch of poison sumac.”

“Oh that is what you were on about.” Illya leaned in, grabbing one of the leaves, he carefully examined it.

 

 

“I wouldn’t do that Illya if I were you,” Napoleon warned.

“No you are mistaken my friend, this is Xanthoceras.”

“And what pray tell is that?”

 

“It is known as the Chinese flowering chestnut, a woody perennial in the soapberry family, Sapindaceae.  It was native to northern China in the provinces of Gansu, Hebi, Henan, Liaoning, Nei Mongol, Njngxia, Shaanxi, and Shandong. It is also cultivated in Russia, having been imported there since the 19th Century. So I am somewhat familiar with it,” Illya’s reply was a bit on the smug side.

“All right if you say so, my walking encyclopedia of a partner,” Solo continued to eye the plant with suspicion.

 

Eight hours later Solo and Kuryakin were in their office back at headquarters, having brought their previous assignment to a successful conclusion after they’d called for and were picked up by an UNCLE helicopter. They’d debriefed with Mr Waverly and were just about ready to head their separate ways for the night after finishing up their written reports.  Both men had blown off their post mission checkups in Medical

Illya was typing away, finishing his report, but kept stopping.

Napoleon watched out of the corner of his eye as his partner seemed to be unconsciously scratching his forearms and hands.

“Illya you okay?”

“Fine, why do you ask?”

“Oh nothing...would you mind if I take a look at your hands?”

Before answering, Kuryakin did so himself.

 _“Dermo!”_ He swore in Russian.

 

His hands were covered in tiny red and very sore looking blisters that were oozing fluid, but the worst of it was between his fingers.

He was feeling an uncontrollable urge to scratch, but restrained himself out of an abundance of caution now. He’d been scratching enough already, but had paid no attention.

“What the hell is this?” He held his hands up for his partner to get a better look at them.

“I’d venture a well educated guess that it’s a rash from poison sumac. The symptoms are even worse that poison ivy or poison oak by the way. I tried to warn you, but you insisted the plant was that Xantho...xantho…”

“Xanthoceras.” Illya deadpanned. “Apparently you were right. What can be done about it?” He was unfamiliar with this particular malady. He paused a second before speaking again.

“Napoleon I am itching down there as well,” he pointed to his crotch with a pained look in his eyes.

“Don’t tell me, you used the men’s room after we got back here....before we showered and changed that is?”

“Yes of course, and I washed my hands after I relieved myself.”

“That was too late, the oil from the plant touched your skin and I suspect spread from your hands to your ummm, well you know.”

“How long will this last?” Illya gasped. “I know nothing of this poison sumac...you said it is worse than poison ivy?”

“I think so, but I’m not 100% sure, so you better go see Doctor Greene in Medical. To be honest,  I have heard the rash could last 10 days to 3 weeks, but it might even go on as long as 6 weeks or more if it’s severe enough. The Doc will know for sure.”

Illya shook his head as he rose, holding his hands up in front of himself like a surgeon. “Would you come with me to Medical?”

“Sure why not?”

“Napoleon thank you for not saying I told you so.” 

“No problem.” As Napoleon followed Illya out the door he began to sing quietly to himself. ‘You’re gonna need an ocean of calamine lotion…”

“Must you sing that song, besides is it not about poison ivy?” Illya hissed.

“Well there’s no song for poison sumac, tovarisch,” Napoleon grinned ear to ear.

 

                                                                                                     

Poison Ivy song:

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gG11rVMQxDU>

 

 


	25. Y is for Yikes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

****

**   Y is for Yikes!**

 

 

_ “Yikes!”  _

“Perhaps yodeling might help Napoleon?”

“Why would I want to yo… _.yowch! _ Will you take it easy?” Solo was turning beet red in the face as he laid down on his stomach while his posterior was being operated upon by his partner.

“It would be better than hearing you yowl,” Illya snickered as he went on about his task. "Then again if your yodeling is anything like your singing..."

"Har-de-har-haaaaaaa! Will you take it easy and not be so rough? How many more before you’re done?”

“Oh I would say another three-dozen or more, give or take a few.”

“Use a gentle touch please, but try to do it quickly.”

“I am being as gentle as I can Napoleon. Now will you please shut it and let me concentrate.”

“Really? How much concentration does using a pair of tweezers take?” Solo was losing his patience.

“You would not want any of the offending objects break off would you? You are going to have enough trouble sitting as it is.”

_ “Nooooo, OUCH!  _ You’re right, you’re right!”

“I must say Napoleon this one is going to be an interesting entry on your expense report. From what I can see your trousers will cost more to repair than they will to replace.  It would take minute stitching to fix them, not to mention removing all the drops of blood seeping into the fabric, which might be impossible.”

“Oh gee, thanks for that reminder. _ Ow! _ Dammit Illya, easy!”

“If you do not like what I am doing to help you out, then you can take care of this yourself!” Kuryakin huffed, as he started to stand.

“No, nope...that, that’s okay. Continue with your torture session.”

 Illya’s expression was incredulous. “Me torturing you? Napoleon you were the one who did not watch where you were going and backed into that cactus. This is the thanks I get for helping you out with the results of your clumsiness.”

The Russian dug in hard on a well embedded cactus spine, perhaps deliberately this time.

Solo buried his head in his hands, biting down hard on his necktie to keep from crying out again… he’d have to add that to his expense report as well.


	26. Z is for Zanzibar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your kudos and comments on this challenge. Hope you enjoyed the stories!

 

                    **Z is for Zanzibar**

  

Napoleon and Illya stood, facing each other.

“Ready when you are IK,” Solo winked.

The Russian flashed his partner an unhappy look, but nodded in agreement.

As if on cue they reached out. slapping their hands together, gaining their captor’s full attention.

They spoke in unison,“Patty cake patty cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake as fast as you.... Wham!”  

Solo and Kuryakin interrupted the child’s rhyme with a swing at their guards, taking them completely by surprise and knocking the Thrushmen out cold.

The agents had engaged in a rather silly self defense technique they’d seen in a film they’d recently watched. It starred the team of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby.

As they exited the room in which they were being held Napoleon remarked to his partner.

“Aren’t you glad I made you go with me to watch ‘The Road to Zanzibar’ at the Bijou last week?”

“I suppose for once something from a silly film came in handy, even though it was childish humor” Illya shrugged, “but lucky our feathered friends did not say that. I read the routine has been featured in a number of Mr. Crosby and Mr. Hope’s films, so it is lucky we are in Zanzibar instead of New York.”

 “Why do you say that?”

“I am sure they are aware of this pattycake thing in Brooklyn, then again if they had seen the film here then we might not have been unsuccessful in our use of that routine. Wait, are we now on the road to Morocco? Dorothy Lamour is quite attractive for an actress, do you not think?”

“Morocco? Illya we’re in Zanzibar... why would you presume the film would be seen here, just because we’re in Zanzibar?” Solo mumbled as shook his head. “You know sometimes your logic eludes me tovarisch.

“I know,” Illya flashed an impish smile along with a flick of his eyebrows. “Did you know that total permanent water hardness expressed as equivalent of CaCO3 can be calculated with this formula (CaCO3) = 2.5(Ca2+) + 4.1(Mg2+)?”  

Napoleon cringed, and ignored the fact that his partner had just spouted the formula for hard water. It seemed Illya’s brain was springing a leak.

Together they escaped from the satrapy in which they were being held, without further incident or discussion.

Solo thought it better to not try and figure out his partner’s way of thinking right now, as it was becoming too jumbled. All would be made right once they arrived at headquarters in Paris.

The information that had been forced into that thick Russian skull was apparently jumbling up Kuryakin’s mind.

He’d received quite a jolt of electricity and information when he was connected to the THRUSH device that treated Illya’s head like a living mainframe computer.

At the moment Illya was a walking database and it needed to be downloaded as soon as possible before it drove the man mad.

While skulking along the narrow alleys of the city, Illya began reciting words according to the alphabet...the Russian alphabet. “ _Atom, baton, varezhki, grusha, dynya, klubnika_...hey, K that is for Kuryakin.” He grinned as if he’d just had an epiphany.

 

“Oh boy,” Napoleon blurted out. This was going to be an interesting challenge. He listened as Illya continued to recite his ABC's, but this time in Japanese.

First they’d have to hop a boat to get to the mainland and from there board a flight to Paris. Once on the plane he’d hit his partner with a sleep dart. It was for the best as who knew what would come out of the Russian’s mouth next.  

 No doubt Illya would forgive him for doing so...eventually.


End file.
